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She laughs before taking a big swallow. I can’t believe I’m this lucky.
twenty-one
ELIOT
“I’ve gotto get Tessa to school.” I ease my eyes open to find Owen, fully dressed, standing in the bedroom.
“At seven in the morning?” I think that’s what my clock says. “On a Saturday?”
“She has a school trip, remember.”
“On a Saturday?”
“Yes,” he answers, bending over to kiss my forehead. “On a Saturday. I’m going straight to work from there, so I’ll see you later.”
He flies out of the bedroom before I can answer. The front door slams closed, and the house falls quiet again.
Weird. I thought Owen took the day off for my birthday. Yep, you heard right. Today is D-day. That dreaded f, dash, dash, dash birthday. The big three-oh. And I’ve been abandoned to my own devices for the day.
Staring up at the ceiling, I replay the conversation. He didn’t even wish me a happy birthday. No breakfast in bed. No birthday song. Not even any spankings. Maybe he’s planning on breaking up with me later. That would make it a banner day. I might as well spend the day learning to cackle and collecting cats.
Throwing off the duvet, I listen to my ankles creak when I stand. Sounds about right. At least the shower lets me stand inside its hot spray while I wallow in self-pity as long as I want. I dress as I try to decide what to do with myself today. Austen and Brontë are taking me to lunch at least.
I wander into the kitchen, jonesing for some coffee. Sitting on the counter is a cinnamon roll. One of those big jobs with raisins and nuts in it. It sits on a dinner plate with a candle stuck in the middle. A note lays in front of it with the words:I bet you thought I forgot. Happy birthday. Be dressed to go out when I get home tonight. Dress warm. Love, Owen.
Okay, he’s redeemed himself a little. Surely he wouldn’t make me dress up for a breakup. It’s a little cryptic though. Dress warm? Like we’re going ice skating in Norway warm or the movie might be a little chilly warm? I shrug, turning to the coffee maker. There’s a cup warming for me. Inside the refrigerator is a fresh carton of cream. Owen was a busy boy this morning.
Pouring coffee into the largest cup I can find, I flop onto the couch, fork in hand. I have to fit into the tiny hole left by the middle school student turned junior jock. There’s a softball glove, basketball, sweatshirt, pair of cleats, and an opened backpack covering the remaining area. I’m going to have to get something for the garage that can hold all of this before we die under a teenage girl hoard.
What should I do with myself? Somehow spending the day on the couch watching television seems wrong. Plus, it now smells like the perfume counter at Sephora. There’s only one more item on my list, and I can’t do it alone. I guess I could go to the office. It should be quiet so I can catch up on some work.
Returning to the bedroom, I pull on a pair of jeans and a flannel. My image in the mirror looks less fashion catalog and more serial killer. Seems about right.
The walk to my office is uneventful. No clowns with balloons jump out. Thankfully. No strippers with a boombox. Sadly. Not even a drive-by birthday mooning from Reed. And yes, he did that for my eighteenth.
The office is equally quiet. With a sigh, I fire up my computer. Accounting doesn’t wait for your birthday festivities to end. I should be able to get a few hours in before meeting my sisters for lunch. At least finish up the school audit.
“What the hell are you doing?” I jump at Brontë’s voice. Looking at the clock on the wall, I see it’s past when I was supposed to meet them. You know the saying. Time flies when you’re doing math. Or something like that.
“Sorry. I lost track of time,” I say, shutting down my computer.
“No, I mean what are you doing at your office at all? And why aren’t you answering your phone?” she asks.
“I forgot to turn the do-not-disturb off,” I mumble, checking the infernal thing on my desk.
“Come on, we’re late.”
“Where are we going?”
“We have appointments at Nailed Her for mani/pedis. Lunch has already been delivered.”
Brontë snaps her fingers and points down the hall. I guess that’s supposed to speed me up? The computer only shuts down so fast. I would prefer not to lose a morning’s worth of work. Grabbing my purse, I chase after her. She can really turn on the runway stride when she wants.
She’s already in her car when I reach the parking lot. It’s one of Rand’s sports cars. He is one brother-in-law with some nice perks.
Brontë revs the car, and we squeal out of the parking lot. In what feels like 2.3 seconds, we arrive at Nailed Her, also known as Lynn’s to the locals. I follow Brontë inside only to find the place completely void of old ladies getting ready for church on Sunday.
“What happened here?” I ask in astonishment. I can’t remember a Saturday without the place brimming with octogenarians.
